


Simmering Things

by LunaDeSangre



Series: The Way You Fall Asleep [1]
Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied Light Dom/Sub, M/M, S3E10: Santa Bites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 14:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14166759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: "Well, when I woke up you were still sawing logs on the couch, so I just—took off."(Or: Kelly,pining. And what the future holds.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I refuse to believe it was as simple as _I just took off_.
> 
> (And please, please, please, nobody ask about that third part I should be posting. It's quadrupled in size and is making me tear my hair out. Just have this thing while I wrestle with it.)

Matt looks so goddamn young and innocent while he sleeps, it's almost ridiculous. All messy blond hair and long lashes, smoothed-out pale skin, slight, soft-looking stubble and even softer-looking pink lips.

He snuffles a little, twitching, obviously dreaming, shuffles slightly, sleepily shifting to his back, one hand falling to his side and the other sliding to his stomach, instead of both tucked under his chin like they'd been when he'd been curled on his side, in the loose ball Kelly found him in.

What _is_ ridiculous, is Kelly thinking words like _cute_ and _sweet_ —and probably worse yet: _beautiful_. It's not the first time those have popped up in his head in relation to Matt (probably far from the last, either), and as always he refuses to let himself think _gorgeous_ (even though by not letting himself think it, he's obviously thinking it anyway). Because _that'd_ be taking Kelly places he does _not_ need to go to. Can't afford to go to. (It's bad enough he's sometimes aware that they might possibly exist at all.)

Chloe's couch is really not meant to comfortably accommodate a grown man, but Matt is often very much like a cat: fitting in unlikely-looking places surprisingly easily, and somehow managing to do so comfortably. It's handy at work—but in this context it's just plain _adorable_. Which is yet another word Kelly shouldn't let himself think, but there it is anyway.

He sighs into his coffee. (His strong, black, bitter coffee—really, it's not a pleasant taste _at all_ , but he's trying to wake up here, and the more vile it is, the more awake he gets.) He's probably being creepy too, staring at his sleeping friend like that.

What's a guy supposed to do in a situation like this, anyway? What the hell are the guidelines for _went to a bar with my friend-slash-flatmate, picked up two girls, and had a wild drunken threesome with my friend sleeping on their couch just a thin, unlocked door away, right where I put him after he all but drunkenly passed out in my arms_?

Kelly's left his two latest partners-in-crime sleeping in the bedroom without a second thought. If it was anyone else lying there on this couch, he'd just beat it. Hell, he probably wouldn't even be having this problem in the first place: he only went out to drink because Matt had asked (and Matt _never_ asks). Normally, when Kelly picks up girls, he does it _alone_.

But it's _Matt_. Matt who's _asked_ him to go out, when he never asks _anyone_ for _anything_. Matt who purposely drank too much and implicitly relied on Kelly to keep them both safe. Matt who docilely let himself be dragged here with Kelly's arm around his waist, giggling drunkenly against Kelly's neck, and who basically passed out in Kelly's arms, all loose-limbed warm trust.

Kelly's laid him out on that couch, checked his vitals, asked for some water to put next to him in case Matt woke up needing some, plugged in his phone at his feet (since that had been the excuse to come here in the first place). Like any good friend would.

He really doubts good friends have wild drunken threesomes in the next room, with just a thin, unlocked door in-between.

And they _definitely_ do not drunkenly half-wish at any point during it that their passed-out, _engaged_ friend would wake up and walk in, so they could kiss _him_ instead.

Or creepily watch him sleep, without even the excuse of being drunk anymore, and find him _cute_ and _sweet_ and _beautiful_ and _adorable_ and _gorgeous_. So gorgeous, like _nobody_ should be, after a night of drinking this much. Gorgeous like a bright, bright light, shining inside and out, from within, even in his sleep. Gorgeous like absolutely no one else.

Matt shifts a little more, sighing, mouth curving up in a small, happy smile, like he's dreaming something good—and now Kelly's _cringing_ , because he's wondering how soft Matt's lips are, what they'd feel like under his, what his gorgeous mouth would taste like.

If he'd wake up with a kiss, like fucking sleeping beauty, because Matt _is_ a sleeping beauty right now, and it's _ridiculous_ , because _of course_ Matt would be pissed, if Kelly kissed him—especially like this, asleep and vulnerable, that'd be such an abuse of _trust_ —

Oh _fucking hell_.

He is _not_ fucking going there. He's not thinking _gorgeous_ and he's not thinking _sleeping beauty_ , and he's not wondering how soft Matt's lips are and what they'd feel like under his and what his gorgeous mouth would taste like. He's _not_.

Because there's Dawson and before that there was Hallie and before that Matt was basically a kid (a very determined kid training to be a firefighter, but a kid nonetheless), and it doesn't matter at all—will _never_ matter—that Kelly's thought about kissing him once or twice (or a few hundreds times), because Matt may have looked at him all warm and confused before, all warm and affectionate and from a bit too close sometimes, once or twice (or a few hundreds times), but he's never been Kelly's and he never, ever will be.

So Kelly's not thinking _gorgeous_ and he's not thinking _sleeping beauty_ , and he's not wondering how soft Matt's lips are and what they'd feel like under his and what his gorgeous mouth would taste like, because there's Dawson and before that there was Hallie, and if things between Matt and Dawson turn out not to work out after all, there'll be somebody else, because Matt is cute and sweet and beautiful and adorable and so, so easy to love. And that's fine, that's good. As long as Matt is happy, it's good.

Even if Kelly doesn't _know_ —doesn't know how soft Matt's lips are, and what they'd feel like under his, and what his gorgeous mouth would taste like, and he'll never, ever know.

But just to be absolutely sure he _doesn't_ , he dumps his unfinished coffee in the sink, still in its mug, and takes off. (He _flees_.)

It's for the best, even if leaving Matt asleep on a stranger's couch feels completely _shitty_. But Matt is safe in Chloe's apartment, and stable, and he obviously needs the sleep, with how much they've drunk and how he basically passed out and all. (It's for the best, because Kelly doesn't trust himself right now, and he always fucks things up, and he can't fuck up if he stays _away_.)

He'll never know, but that's fine, that's good. All he wants is to see Matt happy. (See that gorgeous, gorgeous smile.)


	2. Chapter 2

But two and a half months later? Two and a half months later Kelly _will_ know how soft Matt's lips are, what they feel like under his, what that gorgeous mouth tastes likes, how good and _right_ it feels, sweetly opening under his, gasping hotly against his ear, the side of his neck—and swallowing around his cock, like he'd never even dreamt about.

And he'll know the smile on Matt's lips afterwards—Matt's _reddened_ and _swollen_ lips—and the light in his eyes, the flush on his cheeks (all adorably embarrassed, proud satisfaction and breathtaking, perpetual embers of _want_ —for _him_ ), the wrecked, fucked-out catch in his voice when he'll ask _Kel?_ still kneeling there on the floor between Kelly's legs as Kelly'll pant and laugh and say _Yeah_ and _Fuck_ and _I love you_ , melted on the couch with his brain thoroughly fried, fingers still buried in utterly disheveled blond strands.

He'll know the way Matt'll laugh, croaky and _throaty_ and breaking a bit, the way he'll rub his cheek against Kelly's thigh, warm and so affectionate, like a pleased cat (the pleased cat that got the cream and the canary and the fish—and the fisherman to boot), and the way he'll smoothly, eagerly climb on Kelly's lap, in Kelly's arms, with just a _come here_ and a little tug on his hair (that'll make him gasp and arch into it, twitching in drained arousal and diving for Kelly's mouth, hungrily, like he can never get enough of him), and he'll know that Matt's never laughed like that and smiled like that for anybody else, that he's never looked at _anyone_ like that, not even the two women he had wanted to spend the rest of his life with at one point.

And he'll know what it'll mean—what it's probably always meant. He'll know what it _is_ , and he'll know it's completely, never-ending-ly mutual, in more than a thousand and one ways (or a few hundred thousands ones).

He'll know then, what in retrospect he really, really should have guessed _now_.

(And he'll never, _ever_ , leave Matt asleep on a stranger's couch again: nobody lucky enough to have found them and to _have_ them would do that to the love of their life.)


End file.
